


a dreaded sunny day

by rambunctiousragamuffin



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 69 dudes, Denied orgasm, Humiliation kink, Institutional Homophobia, M/M, Olympics AU, Repression, Rimming, Unsafe Sex, cousin!rey, filthy messes, gymnast!ben, marathon runner!hux, minor breathplay, this story has been brought to you by hux's inability to communicate, yes ben does the splits during sex b/c if u could wouldn't u?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7683346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rambunctiousragamuffin/pseuds/rambunctiousragamuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olympic gymnast Ben Solo is back after three and a half years of being injured, and is determined to prove to everyone that he deserves to take home the gold.</p><p>But he might just end up taking home a ginger's love, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minzimpression](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minzimpression/gifts).



> this was supposed to be a wedding gift for my dearest friend minze. i hope that you enjoy it. <3

Three and a half long years of recovery, and now that he was so close to winning Olympic gold that he could feel its comforting weight hanging around his neck, he was about to throw it all away over a look of contempt that he had foolishly misinterpreted as one of flirtation.

 

Ben took a deep breath and rolled his ill-healed shoulder to loosen it up. Through the rose-tinted goggles of infatuation, he remembered the sight of the thin redhead reclining insouciantly against the bar in a small pub in the Olympic Village taking his breath away.

 

He’d had such an aura about him, even though his slender form barely took up any physical space at the bar. As he’d thrown his head back in laughter to something that--judging by their matching tracksuits--his teammate had said, and proceeded to lean back on an elbow, feet casually crossed at the ankle, the entire world seemed to gravitate around him. Or maybe just Ben’s world.

 

Ben could have sworn that he had seen a flash of interest in those pale eyes as they flicked over him, eyeing him up from across the room, before turning back to his teammates. No, not just teammates. Judging by the ease with which they casually touched each other, they must have been friends; they were too comfortable being in each other’s space at the cramped bar. Or perhaps that meant they could just as easily have been lovers. However, in the moment, Ben had been certain he had seen a flash of arousal as those pale eyes appraised him.

 

He had turned back to half-listen to Finn’s rambling story about the cute dog owner whose corgi he’d helped find earlier while surreptitiously watching the redhead and waiting for him to finish his drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben could see him raising his beer to his lips for what would be the last time, and Ben was up and out of his seat before Finn could ask where he was going.

 

Ben installed himself at the bar next to the redhead, shoulders brushing against each other. Ben had timed it _just_ right so that the redhead placed his now-empty beer on the bar counter just as the bartender was approaching Ben.

 

“I’ll have a Yeungling, please,” Ben ordered, despite the fact that he still had a mostly full one left on the table where he’d left a puzzled-looking Finn sitting alone. “And my friend here will have another Guinness.”

 

Ben gently placed his hand just above the swell of the redhead’s lower back as he said ‘my friend,’ his touch light enough to be casual. After he paid, he turned towards the redhead and raised his own bottle to clink necks with his.

 

“Do you always buy your _‘friends’_ drinks?” the redhead asked, one skeptical eyebrow raised.

 

Ben just shrugged, his bad shoulder twinging. He took a sip of his own beer to cover up the wince.

 

“Only the cute ones,” Ben responded, winking over his shoulder as he walked back to his seat.

 

Sometime later, when Finn was just about wrapping up his inane story about his earlier corgi-finding antics, Ben felt a soft weight resting on his bad shoulder, and he twitched away. He turned around just in time to find the redhead from the bar in the middle of dropping his hand with a swiftly-shuttering expression. He warily lifted his other hand, where he was holding two fresh beer bottles by the neck in between his long, slender fingers.

 

“I came to repay you for your earlier generosity,” the redhead said, voice devoid of even an ounce of inflection.

 

The tension between Ben and the redhead was so palpable that even Finn was shifting awkwardly in his seat.

 

“Hey, man, I gotta run. I have a PT session early in the morning. Bye!”

 

With that, Ben was left alone with the redhead, one and a half beers still in front of him, as well as the one the redhead was currently clutching. He began scowling at Ben when, not wanting to be rude and reject the redhead’s offering, Ben held up a single finger in a universal “wait” sign. He downed the remnants in a few long pulls, then held out his hand for the one that the redhead was carrying.

 

Pale eyes flicked towards the mostly-full and now tepid beer still sitting in front of Ben.

 

“Yeah, my… friend decided he didn’t like the taste.”

 

“He was rather pretty,” the redhead says nonchalantly, turning just in time to watch Finn make his egress.

 

“I guess if you like that sort of thing. He’s not my type,” Ben responded, languidly dragging his eyes over the redhead’s lithe form.

 

“Male?” _No, too damn nice, more like._

 

The redhead shifted his weight between his feet, poising himself to leave.

 

Oh. _Oh_. Now Ben got it. He quickly snatched the Yeungling hanging from between the redhead’s fingers and took a swig from it.

 

“No, forget I said anything. Thanks for the beer,” Ben said in the general direction of his feet as he scrambled to them, accidentally knocking the redhead’s hip with the back of his chair and causing him to spill his Guinness onto Ben. “Shit, sorry.”

 

But Ben hadn’t waited for the redhead to respond, and just loped to the bathroom. The establishment was small enough that there was only one, and it had a lockable door, so Ben did before going to the sink and splashing blissfully cold water on his face.

 

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, Ben sighed. He looked a wreck. Honestly, what had he been thinking?

 

“Busy!” Ben called when someone knocked on the door. Whoever it was knocked again, more earnestly, and Ben clenched his fist, only barely able to suppress the desire to punch the mirror.

 

“Fine! I’m done!”

 

He tried to shoulder his way past whoever it was at the door, but they held on to his elbow. Although Ben could have easily pulled free, it was the sentiment more than the force that held him back. His shoulders tensed as he stopped storming away and spun around. The redhead from the bar dropped his hand with a blank look on his face, even as Ben glowered.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” The tight, modulated cadence to the crisp, articulated accent revealed that the redhead was attempting to mollify Ben, and Ben’s shoulders sagged.

 

“I… misinterpreted, and I overstepped my boundaries. It was a mistake, one which I will not repeat, so please don’t persecute me for it.” 

 

The redhead nodded with finality at this and stepped away from Ben, leaving him alone and confused. It made him want to hide out in the bathroom again.

 

Unfortunately for Ben, during his exchange with the redhead someone else had snuck into the bathroom. He decided to go sit back down at his table from before, but the Norwegian wrestling team had taken its seat there. Ben finally sighed and headed for the door instead, intent taking his leave.

 

Along the way, he walked past the redhead and his teammates, who were still at the bar, and Ben caught the tail-end of their conversation.

 

“So I told her ‘get off your high pommel horse!’ Honestly, why are gymnasts even allowed in the Olympics? It’s not like it’s even a real sport. The judges just like watching girls jump about in tight little costumes.”

 

Ben halted mid-stride, colliding with someone who had clearly expected him to keep on moving, and thus ended up spilling their drink all over Ben.

 

“Oi! Watch where you’re going!”

 

“Sorry,” Ben mumbled to the person, before turning to face the redhead’s teammate.

 

“The female gymnasts that I know are far better sportsmen than you could _ever_ be,” Ben sneered at the thin, mousy blond who had uttered such a disgusting comment. “You don’t know how much _skill_ is required to do even basic gymnastics moves. You couldn’t even do a cartwheel.”

 

Recognition flashed in the blond’s eyes, which seemingly twinkled. They made his face appear filled with mirth, were it not for the cruel smirk upon his lips.

 

“Wait! I know you. You’re that disgraced gymnast… Skywalker, wasn’t it? You made a fool of yourself at the last Olympics,” he said gleefully. “Have you come back for more embarrassment?” he sneered.

 

If Ben flushed in the dim lighting of the pub… Well, it could easily be blamed on anger, rather than arousal.

 

“I’ll be taking home gold this year, just you watch.”

 

“The only thing you’ll be taking home this year will be your wounded pride.”

 

“And the only thing you’ll be taking home will be a broken nose.”

 

The blond placed his drink on the bar counter and held up his hands in fake-surrender.

 

“Oh, I’m so scared.”

 

Ben feinted towards the blond, but a hand which was becoming increasingly familiar landed on his shoulder, staying him.

 

“Stop it! That’s enough, the both of you! I suggest we settle this dispute amicably, in a sportsmanlike fashion.”

 

“Whatever,” the blond scoffed. “If you want to waste your time watching this _fairy_ dance around, go ahead. But there’s a brunette down on the other side of the bar who’s been eyeing me up.” The blond clapped him hard on his bad shoulder before walking away, and Ben barely suppressed a wince.

 

He was about to chase after him, but the slender hand of the redhead that was still on his person clamped down harder on his shoulder.

 

How had he not noticed that it was still there? It seemed that the redhead had the same epiphany, embarrassedly using his other hand to cover up a fake cough as he blushed. It was a lovely colour on his cheeks. It was such a shame that such a horrible bigot would be so attractive.

 

Ben shook his head in disgust and buried his hands in his sweatpant pockets as he turned to leave the pub at long last.

 

“Wait.” Ben, incredulous, spun back around so fast that a couple of drops from his still-damp hair flicked the redhead in the face, and the redhead flinched away.

 

“What?” Ben asked impatiently.

 

“I do believe you promised a demonstration of your prowess.”

 

Ben boggled at the redhead. What? Really? But the redhead gazed back calmly, one eyebrow half-raised.

 

“Fine, whatever,” Ben shrugged, affecting a countenance of confidence that he did not currently feel. “Come on then.”

 

He turned and left the pub without checking to see whether the redhead was following him.

 

* * *

 

That was how Ben had ended up here, in the gymnasium of the Olympic village, alone with the redhead, after having shouted out the lone straggler practicing their work on the beam at this time of night.

 

This was also how he was about to throw away three and a half years of rest, PT, and strengthening exercises, three and a half years of corticosteroid treatment and dealing with a broken bone that had never quite healed correctly. All because he couldn’t keep his pride in check.

 

Ben sighed at himself, then rolled his shoulders and bounced on his knees slightly. Really, he should be doing an entire, proper warm up, but he didn’t want to be under the redhead’s contemptuous gaze any longer than he had to be. There was a heat to it that unnerved Ben, something in the way it seemed to bore straight into him, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a deeply discomfiting manner.

 

He took a deep breath in… then took a running start diagonally across the floor mat. About a third of the way through he started leaning into a handspring, and then he was upside-down. And then suddenly he was enjoying the almost weightless sensation of _flying_ , before landing briefly on his feet and leaning forward into a second handspring.

 

This time, he landed unevenly, on his bad arm first, but Ben pushed past the pain, springing up again with greater momentum and height, and then he was twisting through the air. He completed one somersault with a full-twist, followed that up with a second somersault with a full-twist and then all too soon he was on the ground again, landing squarely on his bare feet with his legs neatly bent.

 

He had just completed a full-in full-out, one of the most complex gymnastics manoeuvre on no-warm up, and his audience didn’t even bother clapping, instead he had just folded his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one leg.

 

Ben huffed in annoyance. _Fine_ . Evidently his audience wasn’t responding to skill, and he’d have to resort to showboatmanship. A pool of dread started to coalesce in the pit of his stomach but he disregarded it. No. No time for that now. He would do the back full-quad and he would absolutely _nail_ it and the redhead would eat a slice of humble pie straight from the oven of shame set at gas-mark egg on his face.

 

Ben rolled his shoulders again and took a few deep breaths, just swaying gently on the balls of his feet to help loosen up his hips for the upcoming manoeuvre. He turned around so that his back was to the redhead, bent his knees and pushed his arms forwards out for counterbalance and then pushed up and he was arching backwards through the air into a back handspring and the feeling of anxiety was temporarily forgotten in lieu of the elation of the moment. He landed solidly on his hands and sprung back again onto his knees and then pushed up again with all of his strength to get as much force as he could and started did a back somersault with one twist, two, three… three and a half and all too suddenly, he had landed. Badly. On his poor shoulder.

 

He didn’t whimper, but it was a near thing. When Ben heard the pad of feet towards him he closed his eyes in shame--it was definitely not to keep the tears welled up.

 

“Pathetic,” the redhead spat, digging his toes into the clavicle of Ben’s bad arm. “You promised me a display of your prowess, and I must admit, I’m wholly disappointed.

 

Ben keened at the sharp jolt of pain and tried to sit up, but the redhead just dug his toes in deeper.

 

“Oh,” the redhead breathed, as if he was truly stunned by the revelation. “I see how it is. You’re getting off on this. _Disgusting_.”

 

Ben opened his eyes and looked down at where--yes. His sweatpants were doing precious little to hide his growing interest.

 

“We’ll have to make this quick, unless you want somebody to see us,” the redhead said, blithely, before coming around to Ben’s front and shucking his pants down to his knees. “Or maybe you _do_ want that. Maybe you _do_ want someone else to see you so wretchedly wanton, writhing on my cock.”

 

Ben watched the redhead free his own hardening length with hungry eyes, until the redhead folded Ben in half and his view was obscured by his pants. But Ben could feel it when the redhead brought their cocks together, could feel the delicious friction of a dry hand pumping up and down his rapidly hardening prick.

 

“You’re so pitiful, it’s no wonder you failed at the last Olympics, and it’s no wonder you failed tonight.” Ben whined, high in his throat, and thrust up against the redhead’s cock, only to receive a swat on his flank.

 

“No, to the winner goes the spoils, and you are most definitely _not_ a winner.”

 

Ben whined again, tossing his head to the side and digging his fingers into his hair, tugging sharply to try and ground himself.

 

“Please!”

 

“What are you begging for, you desperate little slattern?”

 

“Please fuck me!” Ben all but shouted, his words echoing awkwardly in the mostly-empty gymnasium. Ben winced at the volume, but he flinched when the redhead halted his ministrations on their cocks.

 

Fuck. Ben had thought… forget what he had thought. It was obviously wrong. This was just some sort of power trip to the redhead, it wasn’t anything remotely like what Ben had thought, or had hoped--

 

“I… I--yeah. I’d like that, but _fuck_ I don’t have anything with me. Do you?”

 

Ben had to take a moment to parse the redhead’s words, and by then the redhead had removed his hand from their cocks and was running it through his hair.

 

“We… could move it back to our rooms?” Ben asked, hopefully.

 

But that hope was dashed when the redhead snorted, and Ben was about to tug his sweatpants back up and run away, with his… _tail_ tucked between his legs.

 

“No, I want to take you apart, right here, so you’ll always remember what a _true_ athlete is capable of.”

 

“Oh!” Ben said in surprise.

 

“Oh!” Ben breathed, more subdued this time, once the redhead’s words had registered.

 

“Do you like that idea? Of course you do, you’re a filthy little strumpet. Of course you want to be spread out here, impaled on my cock, where anyone could find you.”

 

“I have… vaseline? In my jacket?” Ben panted out.

 

The redhead’s face twisted strangely.

 

“That’s not… optimal, but a harlot like you hardly deserves any better.”

 

With one more swat to his flank, the redhead got up and tucked himself back into his pants to run over to where Ben had shucked his jacket, and dug out the little container of vaseline.

 

Before Ben could so much as complain about it being cold, a slick finger had breached him, and Ben thrust his hips up, searching for more contact. He needed _more_ , he needed it _deeper_.

 

The redhead tsked Ben, but complied with his unspoken request, adding a second finger in and crooking it against his sweet spot, and Ben nearly kneed himself in the face.

 

“Look at how eager you are, the way that your greedy hole takes my fingers so easily. Will you take my cock with the same enthusiasm?”

 

“Please,” Ben moaned, and his breath caught as another brush against the spongy bundle of nerves inside him sent another jolt of pleasure coursing up his spine.

 

The redhead just hummed and added a third finger, slowly thrusting them in and out and scissoring them.

 

It wasn’t enough for Ben, not nearly. He needed to feel split apart, he needed to feel the delicious slow burn of a cock dragging inside him…

 

“Please,” Ben asked again, little more than a plea.

 

He almost whimpered when the redhead removed his fingers and he _did_ whimper when they were replaced by the blunt head of his cock. It had felt large against his own, but feeling it pressed against his entrance like that, Ben realised just _how_ large it was.

 

His eyes opened in shock--when had they closed?--and he tensed up. The redhead moved the hand that wasn’t guiding him towards Ben’s rim to rub soothing circles on his hip.

 

“Shh, it’s okay. Relax. I’m going to show you the discipline of a _real_ athlete.”

 

With that, the redhead pushed slowly into Ben, barely sinking in more than an inch at a time with each shallow roll of his hips until he was fully seated within him. Ben felt so _full_ , stretched around the redhead like that, and his head tossed from side to side each time he felt the length of it dragging along his prostate.

 

The redhead set a sedate, steady pace, basically just an onslaught against the sweet spot inside of him, and the tension mounted sluggishly with each thrust, each slap of skin against skin. There was a slight sheen of sweat on the both of them now, cooling them in the night air, and Ben shivered.

 

The redhead must have mistaken it for Ben trying to thrust back onto his cock, because the redhead tightened his grip on Ben’s hip, the sharp, _acute_ , pain of his nails digging into Ben’s skin a welcome diversion from the persistent pleasure of each thrust.

 

Ben doesn’t know how long it’s been, how long they’ve been going at it. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but with each breath they drew, the likelihood of getting caught increased, and it filled Ben with a nervous tension that only served to accentuate the heights of his ecstasy.

 

He was babbling by now, reduced to little more than expletives and pleas for the redhead to please go harder, to go faster--in between his pants, that is. But the redhead’s breathing wasn’t even uneven yet, as he pounded away unerringly at Ben’s prostate.

 

Ben snaked one of his hands down to try and pull at himself, needing something a little more than what the redhead was giving him to push him over the edge, but the other man wasn’t having it, instead twining the fingers of both pairs of their hands together and resting on his forearms. The new pressure of the redhead’s body on Ben’s meant that his legs were getting stretched even further, but he was capable of being stretched far more than that, and it was only a dull pull compared to doing a set of splits on parallel bars.

 

Ben tried to writhe beneath the redhead, to get some extra contact on his cock rubbing against the redhead’s stomach, but the redhead just _stopped_ until Ben stilled beneath him. He was so close to the edge now that it was dizzying, maddening, and the redhead had just stopped!

 

“Please,” Ben begged. _“Please, I need to come_.”

 

But the redhead seemed to either ignore, or truly not care, about Ben’s plight, as he resumed his languorous rhythm, the almost lackadaisical pace of the snap of his hips.

 

Eventually, Ben lost all sense of time beyond his shuddering breaths and heart pumping liquid fire rapidly through his veins. He didn’t even care anymore if someone were to walk in on him like this, he was so desperate for release.

 

His babbling had been reduced to an inane litany of “please, please, more, please,” his voice increasingly broken until he tasted blood on hips lips.

 

What?

 

Oh. They must have cracked, Ben thinks in a far off part of his mind. Ben licks at it, lapping at it, more like, but it continues to bleed. But now his dry and chapped and split lips are stinging and he _still_ hasn’t come and he thinks he might _explode_ from the pressure building up in his belly.

 

Then the redhead kisses him. Just a chaste little peck, and _finally_ it’s like a choir of angels are singing as he sighs as his release hit him, his toes curling and his back arching and his cock spurting all over him.

 

But the redhead didn’t pull out. He fucked Ben through his orgasm, he fucked Ben to the point where he was a blubbering, crying, oversensitized mess.

 

Then he fucked Ben some more.

 

Still with the same, interminable, infinitely patient pace.

 

Ben gave up on pleading; partially because he didn’t know what he wanted--more please, no too much stop--but mostly because it hurt his throat too much.

 

He resorted to groans and grunts like some sort of barbaric _brute_ , his sounds of pleasure barely more than the air being driven out of his lungs with each thrust of the redhead’s hips.

 

It wasn’t enough before. Now it was too much.

 

But Ben still felt the familiar, tightening coil in his belly.

 

This time, though, Ben didn’t fight his way to find his pleasure, he just lay there and took it, took whatever the redhead was willing to offer.

 

Eventually, Ben thought that he heard something, off in the distance. Someone coming into the gymnasium? He tensed, reflexively, his subconscious expecting everything to go to shit even as his conscious mind was entirely subsumed in cyclic thoughts of “more too much more.”

 

It surprised Ben when he realised that it was the redhead starting to pant above him. Ben didn’t have any idea of how long it had been, but it didn’t surprise him that his inestimable control was finally starting to fray at the edges a little bit.

 

On one particularly avid thrust, Ben felt the familiar weight between his legs that signified that he had gotten hard again. When had that happened? Knowing his own refractory period, he at least had some rough estimation of time.

 

It had been over twenty minutes, at least, not including the time that it had taken Ben to come the first time, and the redhead was still relentlessly driving into him, driving him beyond mere pleasure and into sheer nirvana…

 

Oh, wait. Ben was coming again.

 

But the redhead still kept fucking him through it. This time, though, it was way, way, _way_ too much for Ben to handle, he felt everything so keenly, so _acutely_ , each drag of the redhead’s cock against his sweet spot no longer sent rapturous little jolts of ecstasy but overwhelming waves that crashed over him and threatened to drown him. Each breath was a desperate gasp when he managed to break the surface of the tumultuous sea around him, the redhead’s once smooth, regular rhythm now stuttering and only hitting Ben’s prostate at erratic intervals as he became more and more concerned with chasing his own pleasure.

 

Just when Ben thought that, impossibly, he was about to come again, for a _third_ time, despite him feeling empty and completely wrung out and like he had nothing left to give for even a single spurt of his cock… the redhead was pulling out.

 

Ben whined, because he was _so close_ and then the redhead nipped his earlobe and whispered something that Ben’s pleasure-addled brain was _certain_ sounded like “fuck, I love you so much,” but that couldn’t have been right, could it? It was just the cocktail of endorphins and oxytocin talking but before Ben could seek clarification, the redhead was leaning back on his haunches and stroking himself off over Ben and then…

 

Then Ben was alone in the gymnasium, fucked out and covered with drying come and cooling sweat and so very, confused.

 

He tried to replay what had happened in his mind, over and over again, and each time it seemed just as ridiculous before.

 

The redhead had said that he loved him, of that, Ben was sure. But Ben had never even met him before tonight!

 

Then he just walked away on weak, shaking legs, like nearly wringing three orgasms out of Ben was just his typical Thursday.

 

Ben winced as he stood up and collected his belongings. Between his shoulder and the ache between his legs, he wouldn’t be forgetting this little escapade anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the week passed by in a blur of training, self-loathing, and the press asking either inane or inappropriate questions. Ben hadn’t tried his floor routine at all during that time, instead electing to practice his other routines until he could complete them with a blindfold and both hands tied between his back. The vault was a lot easier on his shoulder, and consequently his pride.

 

Worryingly, though, Ben hadn’t heard at all from his coach during that time. It wasn’t like Snoke to leave him in the lurch like this. Snoke had always been like a surrogate father--no, he had been a  _ better _ father than his own. He had encouraged and supported Ben, and if it weren’t for Snoke’s help with his recovery, Ben wouldn’t even be competing in these games.

 

But still, the lack of contact left a jarring, empty feeling inside of Ben. One that he tried to fill by training even harder, so that he couldn’t think of anything beyond the feeling of the rings or the bars in his hands, the momentary weightlessness as he vaulted over the pommel horse, or the firm springiness of the floor beneath his feet.

 

It was almost on autopilot that Ben numbly got ready for his events. He knew that he should be feeling  _ something _ . Anticipation, surely. Anxiety, probably. Excitement, maybe. Even  _ dread _ . But the only thing that he could feel was the great gaping  _ maw _ of empty loneliness inside of him.

 

Why hadn’t Snoke contacted him? What was so wrong with him, so inadequate, so unworthy, that his coach hadn’t even deigned a check-in, let alone “good luck”?

 

These thoughts plagued him, echoing in his mind in conflicting voices.

 

_ Pathetic _ .  _ Potential. Embarrassment. Elation _ .

 

They were only compounded as Ben surreptitiously looked around at the crowd gathered to watch him. Well, watch the _ gymnastics events _ , but he would be performing in them. Ben thought that he had seen a shock of red hair in the crowd, and he mentally slapped himself for thinking that it could be  _ him _ . Red hair wasn’t  _ that _ rare.

 

Ben felt all the eyes boring into him as he completed his parallel bar routine, and it took almost half of his routine to find his stride, so preoccupied with his own thoughts, was he. But the strain in his arms and the sweat trickling down the back of his neck blissfully quietened all thoughts beyond “one arm in front of the other, swing, swing,  _ swing _ .”

 

He fared better in his high bar event--both subjectively and objectively--though he was  _ really _ beginning to feel the effort in the way his shoulder was beginning to twinge. Without Snoke there to gently massage the knot away, and whisper seductively sweet words of support to him, Ben had to remind himself why he was competing, what for.

 

To prove to everyone, the world, his family, his  _ father _ that he wasn’t a disappointment, that he wasn’t a has-been, that he could  _ do _ this. To repay Snoke for all the time and effort that he had invested into honing him into the keen instrument of athletic supremacy.

 

It was the pommel horse that gave him back his confidence, though. It got his heart pumping and his breath coming out in quick pants, and he was able to just enjoy the exertion, the way that he had practiced this routine again and again and  _ again _ showing in the quiet competency and ease with which he completed it.

 

The rings were the hardest event for him, by far. The strain on his shoulder was almost too much. It almost gave out and he almost lost his grip, and he thought for sure that he would be disqualified. But even though his coach wasn’t there for him physically, he was still there for Ben in spirit, and Ben, in his mind’s eye, imagined the stoic disappointment which which he would look down his nose at Ben if he was disqualified now.

 

No. He refused to let that happen.

 

He completed his routine, and though his score was middling, he gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back. There was still floor. He could still prove his name with that.

 

He had just underestimated how  _ difficult _ it would be. He was the last to compete in the event, and everyone’s attention was starting to fray. He would need to be memorable, he would need to be  _ exceptional _ , worthy of the name of Skywalker.

 

There was a moment, after he had sprung up from his second backspring, when he was soaring through the air, where he started to doubt himself. There was a moment, where he second-guessed everything. Had he sprung up with enough force? Had he twisted enough, had he twisted  _ quickly _ enough? Would he make it? Or would he make a fool of himself,  _ again _ ?

 

Then he had landed, square on the balls of his feet, in a perfect crouch, and the crowd went wild. Or maybe that was just the rushing of blood in his own ears.

 

He had done it. He had  _ done _ it. The full quad back. The move that he had failed at the last Olympics, the one that had injured him so grievously, the one that he had failed that night, in front of  _ him _ .

 

He had done it, he had surely nailed the Gold for floor, and, doing some rapid-mental arithmetic, possibly even the overall.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben was walking along, arm in arm with Finn, and Ben only allowed it because he was riding the high of three Golds and two Silvers. Together, along with a couple of other members of their team, they were making their way to the pub in the village to celebrate.

 

They were just about to step inside when Ben heard it.  _ It _ was a small, soul-shattering cry, full of bruised pride and broken dreams. It resonated with Ben on a fundamental level, because it was the same sound that he had made when he received the prognosis about his shoulder injury.

  
  


Waving his team members away, Ben went to go investigate. He would offer his comforts, trite as they may be, and whoever it was could either accept or reject them, and that would be that. It was out of an altruistic camaraderie, not any ulterior desire to pry.

 

Ben followed the muffled cries down into an alleyway beside the pub, though they had petered out into little more than sniffles by now. Ben couldn’t see much, there was only a single flickering light on the opposite wall, and the small cherry of a lit cigarette being held between slender, shaking fingers.

 

The figure’s hood obscured their face from Ben’s sight until a bad drag on their cigarette caused them to cough and splutter, snapping their head back so that their hood fell back from their face and--oh  _ shit _ . It was him. The redhead.

 

Ben didn’t think that he had been seen yet, so he tried to back away as slowly and quietly as possible, but a stray cat--little more than a ball of orange fluff, if Ben was being generous--tripped him over.

 

A few things then happened in quick succession over the span of a few moments. Ben went sprawling backwards, swearing loudly, the redhead turned towards Ben and started moving forward to help, only to be tripped over by the same murderous ball of fur and then the redhead was sprawling on top of Ben, his cigarette burning a hole through Ben’s track suit pants.

 

“Ah, shit,  _ fuck _ ,” Ben swore, again, reflexively kicking up and accidentally kneeing the redhead in the nose.

 

The redhead, pinching the bridge of his nose, between those delectable fingers, sat back on his haunches and started crying again. Ben propped himself up on his elbows, the redhead kneeling between his spread legs, and took stock of the situation.

 

He was sprawled in a dingy alleyway with his medals hanging around his neck, with a cute guy between his legs, holding his bloody nose. There was something amusing in the sheer surreality of the situation, and Ben flopped back onto his back as he let out a full-bellied guffaw.

 

Through the tears in his eyes, Ben could see the redhead’s look of angered indignation, then the smile slowly spreading across his face--just a little quirk of the corner of his mouth at first--and then their laughs were forming a discordant cacophony in the small alleyway.

 

Eventually their laughter ebbed away and silence installed itself again, but it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t tense. It was the silence of two people who were happy to be in each-other’s company, without feeling the need to force conversation.

 

It was a silence that settled around Ben like a warm blanket, wrapping itself around both his shoulders  _ and _ his heart. It was a gentle comfort that Ben couldn’t remember having ever felt before, and for a moment he forgot everything else around him. For a moment, he forgot that he was in a compromising position in a semi-public space.

 

He forgot that, until he heard Finn’s voice calling out to him, and he scrambled to get up before Finn found him like that.

 

“Ben? Buddy?”

 

Ben snatched the now-extinct cigarette butt from the redhead’s hand, their fingers barely brushing, and went to go meet Finn at the entrance to the alleyway.

 

He stood carefully, so he could hide the redhead from Finn’s gaze, even as he tried to affect a nonchalant countenance.

 

“Sorry, just stopped for a smoke.”

 

“I didn’t know that you smoked.”

 

“I don’t, normally.”

 

“Good, it’s bad for you,” said an unknown voice, coming from a smiling man about Finn’s height. He had fantastic hair, and a little corgi running beside him.

 

“Poe said that he knows somewhere that we can play table tennis. Did you wanna come with?”

 

Ben looked at the way that Finn was trying to earnestly smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“Nah, I think I’ll stick around for a drink by myself. You guys go have fun, though.”

 

Ben pretended to flick the ashes on the cigarette as he waved goodbye, even though the flame had long gone out.

 

Once they were well and truly back down the pathway, Ben looked furtively around to make sure that no-one else was nearby, and returned his attention to the redhead, who was now curled in on himself.

 

“Come to poke fun of me, have you? Well I don’t feel like indulging your  _ perversion _ .” The spiteful tone cut Ben to the quick even more than the jab at his… proclivities. That someone he didn’t know would think so lowly of him…

 

Ben did his best to shrug it off, walking over to the bin by the door and disposing of the cigarette butt.

 

“Actually, I  _ came _ to see if you were okay, but I guess I needn’t have bothered.”

 

His leg still stung from where the cigarette had burned his skin, and Ben reckoned that it would scar. Kind of funny, that he would have been injured at both of the Olympic games that he had attended, although this injury was far more metaphorical.

 

First Snoke not being there for him, and then whatever he might have maybe almost had with the redhead cruelly rejected like this.

 

The redhead let out a groan of frustration, but Ben didn’t look back, just kept walking away. He was probably just as surprised as the redhead looked to be when he stopped and turned back around when the redhead said “wait.”

 

Ben honestly had no idea what had possessed him to do so, but the redhead looked so broken and pitiful that he told himself that it was to protect the redhead from any less scrupulous individuals.

 

That’s what he told himself, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the way that the redhead’s eyes were shining with unshed tears, and his lips were wrapping themselves around another cigarette.

 

Ben had taken half a step to turn back around to go because how  _ dare _ this man call out “wait” and make Ben stop, only to drag out the moment with a drag on his cigarette. But the redhead couldn’t even  _ light _ the damn thing, and instead of taking him away, his feet took him  _ towards _ the redhead, and Ben crouched before him. He took the redhead’s hands in his own, eclipsing them, as he took the lighter and flicked it, so that the redhead could light his cigarette.

 

The redhead took a harsh drag, and tried to turn his head away from Ben to exhale the smoke in his lungs, but Ben gently cupped the bearded face and held the redhead’s head still. The scent of cheap tobacco cloyed his nose and almost the smoke made his eyes water a little, but Ben was busy counting each freckle on the redhead’s cheeks, and if the redhead had turned away, Ben would have lost his count.

 

The redhead took another drag, and coughed as he let out a shaky sob-laugh.

 

“I’m doing this all wrong. I had promised myself that if I saw you again--I mean,  _ met _ you again, in person, because I saw you today at your events and you were  _ sublime _ , truly. A supreme specimen and so  _ beautiful _ and so  _ you _ and it reminded me of why I fell in love with you in the first place. You were so  _ wonderful _ and I was so rude, so  _ horrible _ to you but I was just so… just so…” 

 

Ben didn’t interrupt the redhead at all throughout his tirade, not even daring to venture a guess as to the word that he was looking for, and just simply waited for the redhead to take another drag of his cigarette to calm himself down.

 

It may have helped to calm the redhead down, but it had the exact opposite effect on Ben, as those lush lips wrapped around the cigarette.

 

“I had followed your career for  _ years _ , you were my teenage crush, did you know? I had to hide my poster of you in case my father found it. I loved the way that you almost seemed to  _ dance _ on the floor, and then I got to meet you! I had day dreamed about that ever since I first saw you on the telly, and then there you were, in the flesh, and then you hugged my teammate, Rey, and my heart was just  _ broken _ because of  _ course _ you couldn’t be gay, not in this world, not at all, because God, whatever, needed to punish  _ me _ for being gay. You were just so happy to see each-other, to hold each-other.”

 

Ben opened his mouth to interject, but the redhead just put one of his fingers on Ben’s lips to shush him.

 

“Of course, it was only  _ after _ my heart had been broken and I forswore anything to do with you that I found out that she was your cousin, and I felt like such a fool. I had lost my only chance to meet you, to befriend you, because even if you weren’t straight for Rey, there was no way that you could be  _ gay _ .” The redhead’s pitch had been picking up, his voice breaking towards the end, and he giggled bitterly, maniacally.

 

“Then you went and got yourself injured and I was so  _ scared _ for you, even though it wasn’t anything too bad. But it could have been, and I wouldn’t have ever gotten the chance to know you. But Rey’s event was coming up, and she needed someone that she trusted to look after you in the hospital and so I, oh-so-selflessly ‘volunteered’ to sit by your bedside. You were hyped up on painkillers, and so loopy that if I had taken a photo of you it would have looked like an M.C Escher.”

 

The redhead took another drag, and then another.

 

“That’s why I was so… So  _ hurt _ . I knew you wouldn’t remember me, they had you on enough morphine to kill an elephant. But still, it  _ hurt _ , and that’s why I was so rude to you. Because, in some sort of messed-up logic I thought that because you didn’t remember me from before, if I gave you a reason to remember me this time, you would. I was so  _ rude _ , and completely ruined any chance of there ever being anything between us, so I thought that I would just have to perform well, to prove myself to you, as being  _ worthy _ , because somehow apparently athleticism equates to the same thing as being a decent person but you did so  _ well _ and I was so  _ proud _ for you, and then I barely even got  _ silver _ and I was so unworthy of you.”

 

The redhead’s cigarette had gone out, but rather than lighting it back up, he crushed it under his foot, and grabbed another from the pack. His last.

 

“I just…” The redhead scratched his beard underneath his chin and ran his hand through his hair. “Can we start again, please?”

 

“No,” Ben said. Short, abrupt. To the point. Perhaps too much so, as the redhead nodded sadly, as if he had resigned himself to not receiving any other answer.

 

“That’s fair enough. I understand. I’m sorry for my behaviour,” the redhead said, beginning to stand up, though he was wobbly and unbalanced, and swaying slightly.

 

Ben rolled his eyes as he also stood up. It probably should have been creepy that the redhead had idealised him for so long, but Ben just felt flattered. That someone would ever be worried about being unworthy of  _ him _ . Ben wanted to show the redhead just how beautiful he was, and just how  _ very _ worthy he was, after all.

 

“I said ‘no,’ because I don’t want to start over. I want to pick up where we left off.”

 

The redhead’s eyes snapped up from looking at his feet to look up at Ben.

 

* * *

 

That’s how Ben found himself in Hux’s room. With a trail of blood trickling down from his nose and staining his upper lip, it wasn’t too hard to allay suspicion by playing that Hux had simply had a few too many drinks and Ben had promised to see him home safely.

 

They had barely even closed the door to Hux’s room--and Ben delighted being able to sigh  _ Hux _ against his lips as they kissed now that the redhead had actually introduced himself to Ben along their trek from the pub to hux’s room--before hands were scrabbling at clothing.

 

Ben’s fingers were a bit  _ too _ eager and accidentally scratched Hux, who let out a protracted moan against Ben’s mouth.

 

“Shh, careful. We have to be quiet.”

 

With some careful maneuvering, Ben arranged themselves on Hux’s bed so that he could mash his ass down on Hux’s bearded face--effectively muffling and keeping him quiet--and contorting himself with one leg alongside Hux’s and the other beside Hux’s face to help keep him balanced as he bent over to take Hux’s cock into his mouth.

 

He could feel Hux’s breath coming in quick pants against his hole and the rough hair of his beard scratching at his sensitive skin, and he had to fill his mouth with Hux’s dick to stop himself from making noise.

 

It was already so flushed and  _ hard _ , and he greedily lapped up at the bead of salty fluid forming at the tip. Ben couldn’t help but buck backwards onto Hux’s tongue when he did the same, lapping at his entrance, with timid, kittenish strokes.

 

Trying to encourage Hux, Ben enthusiastically laved at Hux’s glans, and further down around the corona once he exposed it from Hux’s foreskin. Ben pulled back long enough to lick his palm, slicking it with his spit, before wrapping his lips around the head of Hux’s cock and pumping the shaft with his now-slickened hand.

 

Meanwhile, Hux began to more enthusiastically go about his own task, if the increased rate of which he was licking at Ben’s tight ring of was any indication. The way that his beard was rubbing at the inside of his ass cheeks will chafe for  _ days _ and Ben honestly wanted nothing more than to be constantly reminded that this was something  _ real _ .

 

Ben swirled his tongue around Hux’s crown and lapped where the next little savoury bead was seeping out of the slit and traced the tip of it alongside the vein protruding along the top. Ben nuzzled into the neatly-groomed thatch of hairs at the base of Hux’s dick, before bending down a little further. The new angle caused the tip of Hux’s tongue to slip inside him, just a little, and Ben hissed in pleasure against the sensitive skin of Hux’s sac.

 

Ben placed a couple of small kisses against them before flattening his tongue and licking a broad stripe across them, and gently drawing one of them into his mouth, sucking softly.

 

Hux nipped at the inside of one of his ass cheeks, and Ben huffed a laugh.

 

“Okay, okay, I get the hint. No more teasing.”

 

He placed another kiss to the tip of Hux’s cock before relaxing his throat enough to swallow it to the hilt.

 

_ Fuck _ , if that didn’t make Hux buck, fucking himself even deeper into Ben’s throat, fucking himself even deeper into the wet heat of his mouth.

 

Hux scraped his teeth along the inside of Ben’s other cheek, so Ben just mashed his face down even harder on Hux’s face. He wanted to see how far Hux’s vaunted discipline would take him when he couldn’t breathe due to Ben’s ass being pressed against his face, and had his cock thrusting into Ben’s oesophagus.

 

The answer was not very, but he and Ben came nearly simultaneously, and  _ before _ Hux had to tap out due to lack of breath. Though, not before tears started to spring in Ben’s eyes for his  _ own _ lack of air in his lungs.

 

They lay there, both panting, both trying to collect their breath, and just enjoying the warmth of each-other. Though Ben tried his best to fight it, he eventually succumbed to sleep, lulled by the gentle metronome of Hux’s heartbeat beneath his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end of the story proper! next "chapter" will just be a sort of coda of sorts. thanks for the ride, guys! ;)


End file.
